


A Reflection on Birthdays

by MaurianasRavenholdt



Category: Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Batfamily, Beta Free since 1986, Birthday, Fluff, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-06
Updated: 2020-07-06
Packaged: 2021-03-04 20:08:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,405
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25112140
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MaurianasRavenholdt/pseuds/MaurianasRavenholdt
Summary: “ Birthdays were the hardest.Almost immediately after Bruce turned eighteen (eighteen years and 6 days) he left. There was little fanfare, a sparsely packed rucksack, and a hasty goodbye. And then Alfred was alone, standing in the gleaming manor kitchen, feeling utterly lost.”Alfred looks back on some of the hardest milestones, and finds more fondness than grief.
Comments: 10
Kudos: 60





	A Reflection on Birthdays

_Birthdays were the hardest._

Almost immediately after Bruce turned eighteen (eighteen years and 6 days) he left. There was little fanfare, a sparsely packed rucksack, and a hasty goodbye. And then Alfred was alone, standing in the gleaming manor kitchen, feeling utterly lost. 

Not that he didn’t have purpose without Bruce. He was _quite_ able to find fulfillment by himself, thank you very much. With the Master of the Manor gone, it was the perfect opportunity to leave, to travel, to bask in a Caribbean sun with a beautiful and witty lady friend. 

But he couldn't work up the courage to go. 

At first, it was reasonable. Master Bruce could return any day, after all. He would be heartbroken to come home to an empty house. But as days stretched on into weeks and months with no word, Alfred slowly tried to accept that Bruce, his _son_ (if he were honest with his heart) was not returning any time soon. May _never_ return. 

So he left. Travelled in a daze. Back to London, across Europe. He told himself it was high time he relaxed. A lie, of course. Because everywhere he went he couldn’t stop scanning the crowds for a familiar face. His boy, just barely a man. He never appeared. 

Eleven months passed. Then nearly twelve, and Alfred found himself drawn, slowly but surely, back to that grand old house. He told himself it was necessary to check in. Make sure the caretakers he left in his stead had followed instructions. Assure himself that his topiary had not overgrown. 

Another lie. 

Part of him longed for Bruce to come home for his 19th birthday. A special return. An acknowledgment of the family bond Alfred prayed they still shared. But the day came and went just like any other. Alfred felt foolish for even hoping. He tossed the carefully made cake into the garbage, and sadly put the candles away. 

Tears pricked at the corners of his eyes, and he fixed his attention on the ceiling, taking a deep breath before putting a kettle onto an empty stove burner and lighting it. 

He took his beaker of tea to the sitting room, planning on distracting himself with a good book, when a small piece of paper sticking out of the mail slot caught his eye. Upon closer inspection, he found it to be a postcard - a stunning scene of the Kusatsu hot springs in Japan. The message on the back was messy, and partially obscured by postage, but Alfred could make it out anyway. 

“Doing well. Talk soon. Bruce.” 

Alfred tucked the postcard into his pocket and smiled.

\----------

_Birthdays were the hardest._

Richard Grayson was the most luminous spirit Alfred had ever encountered. Even after the murder of the boy’s parents, his brutalization at the hands of the residents at the Youth Detention Center, and the uprooting of his entire life, there was undeniable _brightness_ inside him. An unquenchable fire that only reminded him of Master Bruce as a child because he was the absolute opposite. Any concerns Alfred had about Master Richard donning the Robin mantle vanished when he saw how simply joyful it made his young charge. 

One morning, however, a few months after Master Bruce had taken the boy in, that gleaming essence seemed entirely gone. The boy sat, looking empty, staring at his untouched breakfast plate. Alfred took to one knee beside him and met the boy’s terribly lonely gaze.

“Master Richard, are you quite alright?”

At first the young one only shook his head. Then tears tipped over onto his cheeks. He scrunched his face tightly, trying and failing to force them back. Alfred watched and gently cupped the side of the boy’s face.

“Today is…” Dick began, “Today _was_...”

He took a heaving breath, steadying himself before continuing in a small voice.

“Today was my mom’s birthday. Or is. I’m not…”

He began crying in earnest. Heavy, grief stricken sobs weighed him down, and Alfred cradled him against his shoulder. All Alfred could do was hold him and stroke a calming hand down his back. When Dick’s wails had diminished to quiet sniffles, Alfred steadied him upright, holding his arms firmly, but with care. 

“What was her favourite kind of cake,” Alfred asked with a small, careful smile.

“I don’t…” his breath hitched, like he might begin crying again, “I don’t know. We only ever had brownies ‘cause they were easy and I could help.” He wiped at his eyes hard with the heels of his palms, and Alfred produced a linen handkerchief from his pocket. 

“Then,” Alfred said as he got to his feet and held out his hand to the boy, “let us make some brownies, shall we? Because someone as special as your mother deserves to be remembered in celebration.”

Tentatively, Dick nodded and smiled, then took Alfred’s hand, and they went to the kitchen together.

\----------

_Birthdays were the hardest._

If Master Richard was a sun, Master Jason was a supernova. All chaos and blinding fire. And gone in what seemed like an instant. The black hole left in his wake threatened to drag Master Bruce in and crush him. The haunted man that flew back from Ethiopia with a casket was not the same Bruce who left the manor just days before. 

Master Jason had been headstrong, brilliant…

But the inescapable truth disembarked at Gotham International Airport.

Jason was dead. 

The months that followed were dark. Bruce retreated deeper and deeper into his misery. When Master Richard learned of the tragedy and came to pull his mentor back to the light, it ended badly. Bruce struck him, and forced him from his home, intent on beating his rage-soaked anguish alone. 

Alfred’s own grief had been eclipsed. Pushed into the shadows in order to keep Bruce from madness. But as the days slipped by, Alfred found himself staring at the calendar - one of the days had been circled in bright red, with a smiley face hovering over the words, “MY BIRTHDAY!!” His first instinct was to take the calendar down and dispose of it. If Master Bruce saw the barely legible scrawl that was Jason’s handwriting, it would only make matters worse. 

He hesitated. 

No, he concluded. Jason’s birthday would not be relegated to the dustbin because Master Bruce couldn’t cope with the truth that Master Jason had _lived_. He was loved, and he deserved to have his special day remembered. 

Carefully, Alfred cut the calendar apart, saving the decorated square. He pulled out a photo album - his project to document Master Jason’s life with them so that, perhaps one day, Bruce may be able to look back on that time with fondness, not rage. He tucked the scrap of paper into a photo sleeve and captioned it, “Master Jason, excited for his 16th birthday.”

Then he slowly closed the album and cried.

\----------

_Birthdays were the hardest_

The addition of Timothy Drake to their growing ’family’ was a singularly peculiar one, in large part due to the fact that Master Timothy still _had_ a family of his own. Master Richard had lost his parents, and was subsequently lost, himself, in a savage system, Master Jason was long without a family, and had survived alone in homelessness and poverty. Master Timothy was, however, something of a next door neighbor. Ostensibly untouched by the cruelty that life could bring. 

One particularly warm day in July, Alfred found Tim absorbed in his work in the dreadfully damp cave. “I trust you had a rather special day yesterday,” Alfred said as he placed a plate with small sandwiches on it next to the boy.

Without looking away from the computer, Timothy asked, “hm? Why’s that?”

“Birthdays _do_ come but once a year, young master,” Alfred replied with a smile. 

Tim rolled his chair back from the desk and looked at Alfred, confused, before recognition read in his features, “Oh. I guess it _was_ my birthday.” 

He shrugged, then returned his attention to the readout on the monitor in front of him. 

“Your parents didn’t celebrate with you,” Alfred asked, incredulous.

“Nah. They're in Switzerland, I think? Somewhere in Europe for sure. Birthdays just aren't that big of a deal.” 

Timothy’s face and posture contradicted his blasè statement. He looked defeated, and his shoulders slumped. Alfred felt something tighten in his chest, an emotion between anger and sadness he couldn’t quite place. The boy’s parents had _abandoned him_. On his birthday. A milestone Alfred had come to cherish for each of his charges, and one he had learned to never take for granted. 

He feigned aloof disinterest and let Tim return to his case without further comment. Once out of sight, he rushed upstairs and set to work. 

On any other day, he would have bristled at the mere mention of a boxed mix cake, but time was of the essence. So he pulled out a brightly colored package that touted the “chocolatey-est” formula and whipped it together, then popped it into cupcake molds (they bake and cool faster, after all), slid them into the oven, and waited. He hoped they would be finished in time. 

Making the icing was a simple matter, accomplished while the small cakes cooled on a rack. At last, and perhaps a _little_ too soon, he piped the vanilla frosting on top in an intricate swirl, dusted the cupcakes with sprinkles, and headed back down to the cave with candles in hand. 

Tim hadn’t moved. 

“You’ll find, young master, that birthdays matter a _great_ deal in this household, and will not be forgotten.” Alfred placed a candle in the center of one of the cupcakes and lit it. “Happy Birthday, Master Timothy. You _will_ make a wish.”

Tentatively, Tim blew out the candle and accepted the cupcake, then went back to his work. Alfred sighed and turned to head back up to the manor. He couldn’t _force_ the boy to see the importance of small things like this. He would have to come to it on his own. 

“Hey Alfred,” Tim called before he’d gotten too far away.

“Yes, Master Timothy?”

A small sniffle betrayed the boy, and he quietly said, “Thank you. It means a lot.”

With a smile, Alfred replied, “You are _quite_ welcome.”

—————

_Birthdays were the hardest_

Alfred wasn’t proud to admit it, but he struggled to find fondness for Damian Wayne the same way he had for his other charges. The boy brought with him an unpalatable arrogance and he practically reeked of unrestrained violence. Present in him was none of Bruce’s sense of justice; no light or fire like Dick and Jason had carried. Nor any of the deep curiosity that followed Master Timothy. 

In short, the Damian Wayne that had quite suddenly arrived at the manor was _cruel_.

Alfred barely had any time to adjust before another tragedy befell their family. Master Bruce was gone. And Dick was left wearing shoes he _never_ wanted to fill. 

Master Richard _tried_. He worked diligently, every day, to show Damian that the world was not a bleak landscape to conquer. Did everything in his power to teach him that family did not mean pain and relentless training. Even as the man Alfred was so very proud of struggled with his own twin griefs - the loss of another father and the loss of the autonomy he held so dear - Master Richard showed Damian unconditional _love_. As time went on, however, Alfred began to fear that Bruce’s youngest son was a lost cause. 

But life continues, even in the absence of loved ones. February’s frigid air had set upon the manor, and Alfred made his rounds winterizing the grand old home, drawing the heavy curtains over the leaded windows in lesser used rooms to hold the line against drafts. He was somewhat surprised to find Damian in the library, sitting on the floor in front of the fire with photo albums stacked up around him. For a moment, Alfred feared the boy might _burn_ the precious momentos, but there was something approaching _tenderness_ in the way he flipped through the pages, pausing on each one to survey the pictures. 

“I can hear you watching me, Pennyworth,” Damian said without looking up. 

“Indeed,” Alfred replied without elaboration. He was in no mood to go rounds with the boy, and even the simplest conversations with him often ended in an argument. So he held his tongue and set to his task. 

“Richard suggested I use some of my free time to study the other half of my lineage, and sent me here.” Damian lifted one of the albums, an old one from Bruce’s childhood. “Father was an unattractive baby.”

“All babies are unattractive, Master Damian,” Alfred said tiredly. “It’s part of their charm.”

“I was unaware today was Father’s birthday.”

The statement was quiet. Alfred almost missed it over the crackling of the logs in the fireplace. Damian’s voice lacked all of the pomposity that had become integral to his speech. He sounded every _bit_ the child he was, and warm fondness tugged at Alfred’s heart. 

“That it is,” Alfred confirmed as he walked to Damian’s side. With hesitation, he put his hand on the boy’s shoulder. 

“Perhaps we should celebrate it. Richard has been overly sentimental lately, and the display may help him regain what little emotional mastery he typically possesses.” The haughtiness was back in Damian’s statement, but Alfred could finally see it for what it was - a crumbling shield disguising a small, frightened boy. 

Deciding to play along with the pretense, Alfred sighed. “Yes, Master Richard is often known for deep sentimentality. Though I personally find it to be one of his greatest strengths. Regardless, I agree, a celebration is in order.

With a final, curt nod, Damian gathered the photo albums together and carried them back to their home in an old wooden trunk. Together, he and Alfred walked down the hall - not hand in hand, but at least side by side. 

“What was Father’s preferred confection?” Damian asked as they entered the gleaming kitchen.

“I’m not entirely sure,” Alfred lied, “but perhaps you can help me make brownies.”

Damian shrugged, “that would be acceptable.”

And though it was a day saturated in grief, Alfred couldn’t help but feel a genuine smile blossom on his face as he showed his grandson, hand over hand, how to make something sweet together.

Perhaps this was a birthday that wouldn't be quite so hard, after all.


End file.
